Nobility and War
by defibrillator
Summary: The story of Skepna, the Orc famed to be Dragonborn and his trials as a respected member of the Stormcloak rebellion. Also follows the developing relationship between Ulfric Stormcloak and a refugee of the Thalmor Embassy. Rated M for sexual content and violence.
1. Chapter 1

It began as a swirling black cloud against the blinding white backdrop of the Eastmarch horizon, accompanied by the sound of distant thunder. The townspeople of Windhelm looked on with mild trepidation, glancing nervously from the swiftly approaching figure to the town guard, who were perched at their stations with tensed muscles. As the apparition drew nearer, the thunderous sounds that accompanied it could be unmistakably identified as hoofbeats, heavy and threatening, and approaching at an overwhelming pace. As the figure stormed down the frozen bridge leading up to the city gates, his amber eyes gleamed through the swirling black tendrils around him, and the guards simultaneously relaxed and lowered their weapons. Whispers of _Dragonborn_ passed among the crowd, though no one had actually seen him in person yet. Not this far north. Most still believed him to be a rumour.

The famed Orc with the dreadlocked mohawk, who had the ability to shout his opponents to death just as Ulfric Stormcloak had done to the High King, coming to _Windhelm_ of all places, astride that legendary red-eyed nightmare of a black horse, and adorned in none other than Boethiah's own poisonous Ebony mail. He brought his monstrous steed to an abrupt halt just before the gates, who reared up and whined in protest, stomping her massive hooves and shaking her mane as the guards and the stablehands gave them a wide berth. He dismounted then, stroking the horse's mane and whispering to her in Orsimer. She seemed to calm only for him, but became restless when anyone else approached her or tried to lead her away.

The guards stood aside as he entered the city, sweeping past the congregated townspeople with a purposeful stride. The shroud of black vapour around him seemed to dissipate momentarily, and the women whispered and giggled behind their hands as he passed. "He's handsome," one whispered. "...for an Orc," she added meekly, though no one had disagreed with her. He had that moonlit-green skin tone that was considered attractive to humans, and his short-tusked mouth was framed with a neatly-trimmed goatee. He looked nothing like the gaunt, ashen-skinned inhabitants of the reclusive outposts, and he was frightening, but not in a monstrous sort of way. All eyes lingered upon the Mace of Molag Bal at his hip, and a collective silence fell over the place as everyone held their breath, no doubt out of fear of being affected by that monstrous armour. "I hear he _stole_ the armour from the prince Boethiah herself!" one woman hissed. "I hear he defeated Boethiah in her own realm just to take it from her corpse!" another countered. If the Orc heard any of the gossip, he made no indication. He marched forward, seemingly oblivious to everyone around him, his face stone and his stride full of determination, as if stopping for just one moment to appreciate the wonders around him would distract him from his objective.

There was something about his general disposition that caused the people to keep their distance, the way his fingers compulsively twitched at his hip as if constantly looking for an excuse to draw his weapon. Any sudden movement might mean meeting one's end as a Molag Bal-shaped imprint in the dirt. He was tense, his muscles perpetually poised for defense. This behaviour was only exacerbated by the sporadic movement of a shadow cast by the occasional bird flying overhead, a reminder that for this particular Orc, that was not a welcome sight. After slaying the dozens of dragons the rumours boasted, anyone would rightfully react the same way. He was constantly cringing, accompanied by a furtive glance upward at every bird that flew past.

The crowd parted for his determined stride, the guards fumbling to open the doors to the Palace of the Kings before he got there. He swept past them without so much as a glance in their direction, and the doors slowly closed behind him, leaving the crowd of spectators to fall to gossip and hurried chatter.

"You sent for me, milord?" The Orc's tone was one of purpose and business as he came to stand before the jarl.

Ulfric sank further back against his throne, wearily rubbing his forehead with his palm. "Skepna, you've been a worthy colleague. I am glad to have you among my ranks. You've proven very competent over the past months."

The Orc humbly nodded, but said nothing as he awaited further orders.

"You lust for the blood of your enemies, and I admire that," Ulfric continued.

Skepna gave a strained smile and shifted slightly. "I wouldn't say that. I just wish for any hindrance to our freedom to be eradicated. Killing them is merely an unfortunate necessity."

"Come now, Skepna. I've seen you, your rage on the battlefield. Your sudden abandon of civility when you unsheath that ghastly abomination of a mace and charge at them with nothing but the passion of hatred in your eyes. You are the only person I've ever known that is insane enough to chase after a dragon as it flies toward the mountains. While everyone else would flee, you keep your eye on the prize. You are a formidable adversary. I am glad you chose me over those Imperial scum."

"They were going to have my head for merely getting lost and not knowing of the closed borders," he replied casually. "A legion as intolerant and tyrannical as that deserves no allegiance of mine. I am honoured to be counted amongst your men, jarl."

"Indeed."

There was a brief pause as Skepna considered taking his leave, but the jarl was fairly adept at signalling when a conversation was over, and this one had the particular feeling that it wasn't.

"Was there something else you needed from me?"

Ulfric's jaw was set as he stared down at the floor. "Exhaustion and weariness has taken its toll on me throughout this war. No doubt it shows. It's been so long since I've enjoyed the simple pleasures of my youth." He paused for a long moment, seemingly pondering some internal struggle, then after a prolonged silence, he said quietly, "I require the company of a woman." The sudden drop in assertiveness in his tone suggested he was embarrassed to be saying this aloud.

Skepna raised his brows at the uncharacteristic request, shifting impatiently as he waited for the jarl to get to the point. "Would you like for me to retrieve an Amulet of Mara from the temple in Riften...?" he suggested.

The jarl waved the notion off before Skepna could even finish the sentence. "No no no. That won't be necessary. I'm not seeking courtship for a wife. I don't wish to get caught up in the petty political machinations of royal matrimony. Remaining a bachelor means staying sharp in war. That doesn't mean I wouldn't appreciate the accompaniment of a woman in my bed."

"I'm...not entirely sure of what you're asking of me."

Ulfric looked up then, suddenly realising the rudeness of his vague request. "I've come to trust your judgment, Skepna. You're the only one to ever challenge my methods, but you have an impressive propensity for getting things done, even if your ways of achieving those goals are...unorthodox. Out of all of my soldiers, you've accomplished the most, traveled through every hold in Skyrim...combined with your congenial nature, I'd wager you'd be able to bring me what I'm looking for."

He stiffened, processing the implications of what Ulfric was asking. "I've done many things that civilians might find questionable," Skepna said warily, "but I'm not sure kidnapping an unsuspecting maiden is among my particular skillset."

"Kidnapping? With that silver tongue of yours, I doubt it would have to come to that. I have every bit of confidence in you."

Skepna bristled a moment, but ultimately acquiesced. "Fair enough. What, ah...did you have any specific...do you ascribe to anything particular? What...exactly should I be looking for?"

"Young, healthy. Preferably a Nord, but I'm no stranger to their affinity for sass and petulance, so as long as she isn't some Aldmeri tart, I'll have no objections. And no virgins. I've had enough of that counterfeit innocence of virtue and it leaves me feeling distasteful. I've had my fair share of cringing virgins in my youth, and its novelty is greatly exaggerated. But she must be tasteful as well. I'm too aware of the social ramifications of keeping company with a common harlot."

"As long as we're keeping it simple," Skepna muttered. "Consider it done. I can make no promises on promptness, but I have fair knowledge of the eligible ladies in each of the holds, so it's a start. I'll return to you as soon as I find one."

A task easier said than done. There was no shortage of eligible ladies in Skyrim, though a vast majority of them were purportedly _unspoiled_, and the ones who weren't had such a stubborn persona of belligerence that even broaching the subject would be unwise. No reputable Nord woman would acquiesce to the prospect of being someone's implied property. He was beginning to think that the particular female the jarl had in mind simply did not exist, and resolved to let the solution come to him. If it was meant to be, it would hopefully fall into his lap. Or he would figure something out once the jarl started nagging him about it.

In a fortuitous turn of events a mere two weeks later, his hound Meeko seemingly solved the problem for him. A chance encounter with the dog some ways off the road in the wooded area south of Solitude resulted in a tacit companionship between them. In an effort to offer the dog some food, he turned and ran, leading Skepna to a dilapidated shack that was seemingly abandoned. Upon entering the shack, the foul smell of death filled his nostrils, with a whimpering Meeko settling himself faithfully by the bedside of a recently-passed Nord. The simple gesture of loyalty caused the Orc to smile briefly, and after perusing the journal on the bedside, he offered the dog his company. Meeko had faithfully followed and fought at his side ever since. It was uncharacteristic that the hound leave his side, so it was cause for concern when he began to whimper and deviate from the path as they returned to Windhelm.

Giving Meeko the benefit of the doubt, Skepna followed as the dog led him down an intersecting path and up the road to the Shrine of Talos on the rocky outcropping that overlooked the city of Windhelm. As they approached, a frail figure was seen slumped over on the steps leading up to the platform. They were clearly wearing Thalmor robes, so he approached with caution, his hand firmly grasping the mace at his hip and a bolt of fire concentrated in the palm of his hand. What Thalmor would be naive enough to try and lay a trap at a Shrine of Talos? Or was it an attempt at vandalism? Perhaps they were using the outcropping as a vantage point to case the city of Windhelm and had subsequently been attacked? Meeko was now nudging the figure with his nose, though the subject made no indication that they were aware of the dog.

"You there!" he called out. "State your business."

There was no response. Meeko looked back toward Skepna and whimpered, then sat firmly on the steps next to the prone figure. Relinquishing the prepared spell in his hand, he tentatively approached the steps and grasped the body by the shoulder, firmly turning it over onto its back. A female. An unconscious and rather beaten one at that. She was of questionable race, and pulling the hood back from her head did little to confirm whether she was of Men or Mer. He gingerly brushed her hair back from her ear, with still no such luck. Depending on what angle he looked at it, it could arguably be pointed. A Breton, perhaps? She was certainly fair enough and slight of build. Either that or of mixed race. If that were the case she was undoubtedly unfettered by familial ties. Skyrim was a cruel place to anyone not of the Nord persuasion, especially if they were of exotic breeding.

The rhythmic _clink_ of armoured guards could be heard from the road below, and Skepna craned his neck to better see the Stormcloaks making their rounds. He recognised one of them and called for assistance, producing a strong health potion as the guard ran up to them. Skepna held out a restraining hand as the guard's approach was accompanied by the swift _sching_ of his drawn sword, and he signaled to him with a closed fist to stand down. The guard hesitantly obeyed and came to kneel beside them.

"Rescuing a Thalmor, Bone-Breaker?" he asked incredulously. "Do you think you can get her to talk?"

"This girl is no Thalmor," Skepna growled, attempting to lift her upright.

"But why is she wearing the robes?"

"I intend to find out. She's still alive, but barely. Here, tilt her head back." Just as he brought the decanter to her mouth, he noticed the bruising across her throat, and her shallow breathing as a result of the injuries. "Damn. Her trachea is possibly caved in. Her airways are obstructed, she'll choke. Hold her up. Be careful!" he barked.

He concentrated his strongest healing spell in his palm as the soldier propped her up, her head falling back to better expose her contusions. "Talos guide us," Skepna whispered, leaning forward and cradling her neck to better inspect the marks. "This girl was strangled - possibly hanged. The degree of these injuries - it's remarkable she survived." He placed his healing palm against her throat, expending every bit of his power just to stabilise her. Her body stiffened against the guard holding her as she awoke with a grating gasp that abruptly turned into a hacking cough, and Skepna firmly removed her from his grasp. He leaned her forward and massaged her back as she coughed and spat blood into the snow, gasping painfully for air. He patiently waited for her to to finish, then gently sat her upright before searching around for the healing potion he'd previously produced.

She panicked then, and attempted to fight against him at the sudden prospect of some unseen threat, but he deftly restrained her as she struggled. The guard at his side quickly reached for the hilt of his sword but froze when Skepna shot him a warning glance. "Listen, I'm not going to hurt you," he said firmly, though she made no indication that she understood. "I want to find out who did this to you. Do you know who did this to you?" Her only response was to keep struggling against him. Another guard from the road below approached the shrine, and as her eyes fell upon the blue Bear of Eastmarch emblazoned across his shield, she paused in her frantic attempts to fight and stared, transfixed by this one trivial piece of armour. She then abruptly relaxed, only to fall against the Orc's shoulder, panting slightly. Skepna and the guard exchanged perplexed glances before he uncorked the potion and held it up to her mouth.

"Take this. Come now, it'll fix what I couldn't." She hesitated, still apprehensive about who she could trust. She inspected the pink bottle warily, then glanced back at the guard, her eyes lingering on his shield once again. She then averted her gaze to the bottle and furtively drank as instructed. "Can you walk?" he asked softly, relinquishing his grasp on her and motioning to help her to her feet. She only stared at him questioningly.

"Answer him!" the guard commanded. "Do you not know with whom you speak?" She shrieked at the guard's hostility, pressing herself back against the shrine as if she made to disappear into the stone.

"_Stand down, soldier_," Skepna growled, his amber eyes alight with a warning that caused the soldier to immediately shrink away. "I don't think she understands us. We can sort that all out later, after we get her inside and to a proper healer. She needs to be out of this cold. Go on ahead and inform the guards at the gate that a Thalmor refugee is being brought in for questioning." He stooped down to lift the trembling girl up, then shot the soldier his threatening glance again. "_I expect full cooperation_." His tone was enough, and the two guards hastened to their task.

He carried her the entire way down the frozen bridge to the gates of Windhelm, ignoring the judging stares of the guards. Meeko followed quietly, only growling occasionally at anyone who came too close. She had drifted back into a half-sleep, her shallow breath against his neck the only indication that she was still alive. The guards at the palace weren't so quick to open the doors this time, and he intended to kick them open if he had to, though they rushed to the task just in time. Ulfric abruptly stood from his throne as Skepna marched down the length of the hall, presenting the girl before the jarl.

"What is this? You've brought a Thalmor here for questioning?" Ulfric regarded the girl as one might a particularly distasteful insect.

"Look closer, jarl. She's no Thalmor. The skin tone's noticeably different than that of an Altmer, and she resembles more of men than she does of mer. She's probably of mixed race. My best guess is she's a refugee and somehow escaped. I assume she must have stolen the robes. They'd be better protection against Skyrim weather than whatever prison rags she must have been wearing."

Ulfric's stare lingered on her, his expression going from suspicion to mild intrigue. "Mmm," he grunted, briefly averting his gaze to the Orc and then back to the half-conscious girl. "You intend to interrogate her, then?"

"Once I can ascertain her origins and locate a translator...of course."

"_Hnnng_," he groaned, tilting his head back in slight frustration and turning away. "Naturally. Very well then," he said over his shoulder. "I have come to trust your discretion. Keep me informed on any new developments."


	2. Chapter 2

The Orc dismissed himself, indicating for the guards not to follow and disappeared into one of the corridors branching off from the main hall. This was the unfortunate part - as the Stormcloak headquarters and incidental kingdom of bachelors, there was no surplus of ladies in Windhelm's palace to assist the girl in getting cleaned up and changing into more appropriate attire. He wouldn't dare trust any of the boorish guards with her, so he resolved to set about the task himself, and hopefully communicate to her as best he could that his intentions were honest. He carried her to the washroom, instructing one of the housecarls to begin drawing hot water and to promptly leave when he had finished. He laid her down on one of the chaise lounges as he waited for the bath to be prepared, hoping to at least wake her before she had to undress. He stopped as he caught his reflection in one of the mirrors, the smoky tendrils of dormant poison emanating from his ebony mail predictably a terrifying sight for a refugee girl. He hurried away to find something less threatening, quickly discarding his armour for a modest set of tavern clothes. He returned to the unconscious girl just as the housecarl was finishing up, seeing that she'd shifted slightly, which had disturbed her robes in the process. He went to secure them in a futile attempt at protecting her modesty, but paused midway through the gesture when he noticed the smear of blood on the inside of her thigh.

His breath caught in his throat, and after a moment's hesitation, he gingerly pulled the robes back and slightly parted her thighs to better inspect the damage, his jaw clenching when he realised the evident. She woke in that moment, rearing up and prepared to defend herself, though countless battles graced him with superior reflexes and he effortlessly caught her wrist before she could strike him. He rearranged her robes and covered her with his free hand, then directed her arm back down and helped her to sit up. She stared at him in the same wide-eyed confusion with which she'd initially regarded him, and he released his grasp on her, keeping his hands visible and indicating that he meant no harm.

"You're safe now. Do you understand? I'm Skepna," he said, placing his hand on his chest. "You were initially under Thalmor captivity? The Thalmor?"

Still she only stared at him, and he intended to merely give up until a scholar could further interrogate her. And then -

"I don't know." Her voice was barely a whisper.

He gently grasped her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. "What?" he pressed. "Say that again."

"I don't know," she said more clearly this time, though it was apparent that her previous injuries prohibited her from straining her voice. "I'm unsure of who or what the Thalmor are, but they were wearing robes like these. The soldiers wore armour."

"_Thank Talos_," he whispered. "My apologies - " he added hastily, "I was afraid there would be a language barrier. Clearly you've been in shock. But I must ask you - this armour that the soldiers wore - could you describe it?"

She looked away. "Gold. Light. Seemed pretty ineffective compared to what you were wearing earlier."

He clenched his jaw and nodded curtly. "_Thalmor_. Now please be honest, and I understand if it's difficult, but...did they rape you?"

She stiffened and closed her eyes, presumably in a futile attempt at hiding the tears that welled up in her eyes. He took that as confirmation, only now fully realising how much more difficult his task had just become. He suddenly felt an uncontrollable rage building up in his chest, a sensation he'd felt before in battle, only more subdued, whenever fighting the Aldmeri terrorists or Imperial soldiers. It was that sensation that occurred whenever someone sidestepped his carefully aligned arrows, or when someone ran away as he charged them with his mace. A frustration that built up over time at the typical cowardice of the Thalmor and their allies, a rage that had always aided him in battle and seemingly protected him from harm, which now threatened to erupt in a cold fury that would likely result in genocide. Monsters, savages. A representation of everything ignoble and vile.

"I won't make you speak on the matter any more," he said quietly. "Doubtless you'd prefer to get cleaned up? What's your name?"

"Sterling," she whispered.

"Sterling? I apologise for this, but I have to accompany you at all times. We're in a time of war and can't afford to take any risks. I genuinely am terribly sorry, especially in light of your - situation - but I give you the utmost assurance that I have no intention of enacting any violence on you. You can trust me."

Her face faltered, as if she were on the verge of breaking into a sob, but she composed herself quickly and nodded. He reluctantly reached forward, gently assisting her in unfastening her robes and sliding them off her shoulders. Her body was tense as she became exposed, and he made it a point to noticeably ignore her nakedness. She attempted to push up from the chaise and faltered, and he instinctively intercepted her, gracefully lifting her up and lowering her into the warm water in one swift motion. Now somewhat modestly covered by the ample soap suds, she regained some of her confidence and openly inspected him.

"You have questions?" he inferred, holding a sponge out to her, which she reluctantly accepted.

"You're very...civilised."

He couldn't help but scoff. "No doubt the Thalmor Embassy has fabricated some tasteful rumours about the Stormcloaks. We may be barbarians in war, but at least we aren't _rapists_. Women come into our arms _willingly_," he said with an embittered smirk that faded into a scowl.

"No...I mean, I'd thought you were a monster. Your size and your teeth frightened me. I'm...not entirely sure what you are, even."

He regarded her with alarmed confusion. "You've...never seen an Orc before. _Talos_, how long had they kept you in captivity?"

She blushed and looked down. "Not long. They said I'd washed up on shore. Being of questionable race, they were suspicious of me and thought I was a spy. I saw a lot of people the likes of which I'd never seen before. I'm..._very_ far from home. I come from a place where - _mer_, I think - don't exist. But because I slightly resemble one of them, they thought I was the result of some traitorous union. Then they..." She stiffened and her face paled, falling into a dazed silence.

She regarded him with mild apprehension then, and shrank deeper into the water, quickly looking away again. It was then that he realised his fists were clenched and he was breathing heavily, very likely a close resemblance to how he must have looked going into battle. "The Aldmeri thought you might at least partially be one of them, and they defiled you anyway. They would bring harm to their own kind. _Monstrous_."

Her features softened then, a flicker of admiration at the notion that this stranger was of nobler cause than the self-proclaimed royals who had tortured her. "You really hate them, don't you?"

"_Yes_."

"It's personal?"

"Not so much personal. Just an abysmal first impression pronounced by many, many subsequent vile experiences that have led me to believe that stereotyping is most certainly not irrational bigotry. The Thalmor are a horrible organisation, and I intend to wipe them out indefinitely."

"I heard tell of Orcs when I was imprisoned. They told stories of what barbaric, unsophisticated savages you were."

He sighed. "Either a reflection of their own guilty behaviour or an unfortunate result of the reclusive xenophobia so widely practiced by the inhabitants of Orc strongholds. Skyrim is beautiful, and has so much potential for progressive revolution, but yet in so many ways she is stymied by primitive tradition. Orcs in Cyrodiil aren't relegated to small compounds in remote locations, they interact with all other races. Here, they're segregated from the world. Whether it's the result of mere choice or pressure from the Nords and their contempt for outsiders, I can never be sure. It's unfortunate for Orcs like myself, because we're seen as traitors to our kind and outsiders to everyone else. Doubtless I wouldn't be nearly as respected as I am if I weren't their damned precious _Dragonborn_." He spat the title out as if it left a particularly foul taste in his mouth.

"So that was you," she whispered. "They spoke of you. Usually in hushed terror, from what I could understand. It seems like a coveted title, but you feel otherwise?"

He shook his head, dismissing the subject as he rolled up his sleeves and leaned forward against the basin. "The inhabitants of Skyrim are too indoctrinated with their fairy tales. They look for divinity where it isn't. I can only imagine where Skyrim would have been if I hadn't made the chance decision to explore Pale Pass at the time that I did, if I hadn't ended up here to control their dragon problem. They act like my abilities are unique, but I have every suspicion I was merely the first anyone encountered with these talents when the problem arose. I'm sure there are plenty of Nord commoners with the same abilities who would have been more suitable for my title. I can only imagine how irate they must be that an Orc, of all people, usurped their precious icon out of mere chance at being in the right place at the wrong time."

"So why are you still here?" Her gaze was fixed on his finely shaped forearms, and she seemingly directed her question toward them.

"Skyrim is in a state of unrest. The potential for peace and renewal is there, it just lacks the ingenuity to get that real push that is necessary for true revolution. As part of the rebellion's cause, I think I may be able to make some sort of difference. And with my influential role as the one who can command dragons...I feel a sort of obligation to these people. And to Ulfric. He's a superior warrior, and I've come to consider him a friend. My loyalty to him as both a soldier and a brother is genuine. Here - let me help you with your hair. Lean back."

She hesitated, but slowly acquiesced, sinking down and closing her eyes as he worked the dirt and blood out of her hair. "You know, you could have thrown me in a cell. For all you know, I could have been an infiltrator."

"I highly doubted the likelihood of that."

"You're so sure."

"I haven't been in Skyrim long, but I am a veteran of warfare and can recognise a victim when I see one. Your injuries combined with your reactions made it clear that you were no threat to the Rebellion. Although I have to ask you one thing - when you first woke, you tried to fight me. Which is understandable, anyone would have - but you relaxed when you saw my guard's shield. You seemingly trusted me because of that. Why was that?"

A small crease formed in the center of her brow, and she inhaled deeply, as if concentrating on some distant memory. "I'd seen that symbol before. That roaring blue bear. Initially on corpses, but then on soldiers that had attempted to infiltrate the prison. They were clearly enemies of my oppressors, and seemed honourable enough in their opposition to them. They would have been my saviours, had they been successful in storming the fort. The enemy of my enemy, I guess. I figured I could trust them. It was only lucky that you were the ones that found me. At any rate, it's fortunate that you didn't immediately assume the worst. I think if it had just been a mere guard, I would have been thrown in a dungeon again."

"Quite possibly. But having been one of Cyrodiil's most respected rangers, my survival was always tantamount to noticing the subtle details of my environment and knowing when something didn't add up. It's a gift, I suppose. Ulfric has come to depend upon it heavily."

"Who is he, anyway? He's your king?"

Skepna was silent a moment, concentrating momentarily on rinsing the soap out of her hair. "Yes," he said finally, "I do believe he is the rightful High King. He earned that title, and is the most qualified for it. As much as my sympathies go out to innocent Elisif and the loss of her husband, the horrible political embarrassment of her situation...she is not fit to rule. She did not earn that title. But...officially, Ulfric is only the jarl of Windhelm and the leader of the Rebellion."

"How did you meet him?"

He gave a modest chuckle. "In captivity. On the cart taking us to our execution."

She sat up then, craning her neck to face him. "You were going to be executed?! _Why_?"

"For getting lost. In Cyrodiil I earned most of my wealth from dungeon diving. I was reckless in my younger years. My thrice-great-grandfather was a major player in ending the Oblivion crisis there 200 years ago. I've always been a lover of books, but they're never quite..._enough_ when you really want to know more about your history. Instead I visited the ruins connected with his journey, to understand more about what happened. Pale Pass was where he recovered the Draconian Madstone, but it's also very close to the border. Having been an old Imperial fort, it was overrun by soldiers. I went in an unsuspecting adventurer and came out the other end only to be met at the tips of a dozen swords and questions I didn't know how to answer. I knew nothing of the political machinations of this place. If I'd been a Nord and had the knowledge to answer cunningly, I might have gone free. But then maybe not. All they knew was that I was a strange face in a broken land, and strong enough to survive the horrors that inhabited that ruin. I'd left a trail of undead Akaviri soldiers and ogres in my wake and the Imperials saw that as a threat. They deduced that no common adventurer would have had the skillset to accomplish that and, like you, they suspected I must be a spy. An intriguing insight to their way of thinking - one-track minds as the result of severe xenophobia and frenzied paranoia. I was captured and sent to my death without trial. Ulfric was among the prisoners in the caravan that took me to Helgen. I didn't know him or what he represented then, but I figured out pretty quickly that to be assumed part of his outfit was a nod to one's resilience and strength. When the dragon attacked I had to make a decision, and it was only fitting that I join him. The Imperial that initially questioned me immediately asked if I was a member of one of the strongholds. I was offended by the assumption, by the implied racism of his question. I realised instantly that Ulfric was the man I should trust. We'd shared a bond in that fleeting moment where we'd both almost been killed, for unjust causes, no less. It was the birth of our brotherhood. And I certainly was not about to entrust my allegiance to an organisation that was going to execute me for something so trivial, and without a trial. There is no honour in the Imperial legion or their Aldmeri lapdogs. I dedicated my entire existence to avenging their tyranny. I didn't anticipate becoming a paragon for the Nord people in the process, but it's something I've come to take in stride."

She leaned back again, resting the back of her head on the edge of the tub. "And so why was Ulfric being executed?"

"For killing the high king. - _Killing_, not murdering," he added, seeing her noticeably stiffen. "It was a true Nord's death. Honourable, and fair. Ulfric challenged him to a duel for justifiable reasons, and High King Torygg accepted. There was nothing malicious or vindictive about it. They both understood the possible consequences and it should have been resolved between them. The Imperials, however, thought differently. Another testament to their tyranny. They meant to force their sanctions on a culture that wasn't theirs, in a land that does not belong to them. Repulsive and cowardly. It was that infringement of Nord tradition, however, that ended up strengthening the Stormcloak Rebellion and adding to our cause. It gained more support for Ulfric than he ever would have imagined. It was probably the defining moment for the Nord people to really see how despotic and unjust the Imperials and their Aldmeri allies truly are."

"He sounds like an honourable man."

Skepna nodded. He hesitated, realising the opportunity to broach the awkward subject. "He is. Now Sterling, listen to me - " She turned her head slightly toward him, suddenly concerned by the sincerity in his voice. "Ulfric asked a favour of me some weeks ago. A favour that you might help me fulfill. Considering your situation, it might be...unpleasant. But my concerns lie with what's going to happen to you now. I need to find a place for you. Setting you out on your own, you run the risk of being captured by the Thalmor again - and I am _not_ going to allow that to happen. You would be guaranteed protection here in Windhelm, but...quite possibly at a fair price."

"What price?" she asked, a stern note of disdain in her voice.

"Ulfric...is a living, breathing male. Naturally he has the needs of one. He set me to the task of obtaining for him a...a mistress, if you will. _Not_ a whore," he added quickly, noticing the sour look on her face. "He respects women far too much for that. He just needs the company of a woman that doesn't include the complications of marriage. He most certainly won't force himself on you as the Thalmor did, but - "

"Things of a sexual nature would be expected of me," she finished quietly.

Skepna sighed. "Eventually. I understand it's a lot to be asking of you, and you are free to decline. Though at the moment, I see things from the perspective of an opportunist and this is the easiest solution for everyone. There aren't a whole lot of options available here, and if you find the idea completely unbearable, then...I can figure something out, but - "

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"I'll do it. I just...need some time."

His expression was one caught between gratitude and apprehension. "Yes? But of course - we're civilised here, and I'm completely sympathetic to what's happened to you. No one here would ever expect you to be forced into any situation before you're ready. You have no idea how much I appreciate your sacrifice." He stood up then, grabbing fresh linens from the nearby wardrobe and handing them out to her. She slowly rose up, shielded by the way he modestly held the towel up in front of her and he snugly wrapped it around her before retrieving fresh garments from the wardrobe. "These should fit you. There's a privacy screen there at the end of the room. Are you hungry?"

She nodded, clinging to the towel that now covered her.

"I can have food brought to you in the privacy of your chambers after you've dressed. Certainly you don't want to deal with the prying eyes of the court in the main hall."

A flicker of a grateful smile crossed her face, and she nodded again.

"If you think you're ready, I could arrange for a private meeting with Ulfric...? It's entirely fine if you aren't."

"No, that would be okay. I think I can do that. If you trust him, then I can too."


	3. Chapter 3

"These quarters are reserved for me whenever I'm in Windhelm, though I own a property here in town, so I don't have much use for them anymore," Skepna said, leading her through a door in the northwest wing of the palace. "Ulfric's chambers are up the stairs at the end of the wing, but other than that, this wing is mostly empty, so you'll find ample privacy here. Save for Yrsarald, who sometimes sneaks off to sleep every once in a while, you'll find it pretty quiet here."

The room was welcoming in contrast to the cold, claustrophobic stone corridors, and was quaint, but spacious, with rustic wooden floors and a double bed with fur comforter in the center. A healthy fire burned in the fireplace, sending a pleasant warmth throughout the room. The waning light of the day sent misty grey beams through the latticed windows, and though some might have found it dreary, she found comfort in its simple charm. The soft lighting was just enough to keep the room from total darkness, but was dim enough to not be too harsh on eyes that had spent considerable time in a dungeon. This room felt safe. It was a welcome relief to the cold stone and the dank earthen smells of the cell she'd come to call home just a day before.

Skepna crossed the room to a small round table and chairs near the hearth, and pulled one chair out, gesturing for her to sit. She did so without hesitation, and he poured her a glass of water from a crystal jug, then sat down across from her. The table was set for two, though he did not eat. A variety of foods were brought in by the kitchen help, as Skepna was unsure of what she would like, and she enjoyed a satisfying meal of goat cheese and red apples, jazbay grapes, pheasant roast and seasoned venison while he entertained her with stories of his travels and the things he'd seen in various abandoned forts and draugr ruins across the land. It was much more than she could have ever asked for.

After he'd been silent a moment, she pondered the ring on his left hand while she picked at a small portion of potato bread. "You're married?" she asked, after having spent the entirety of the meal in complete silence.

He held his breath, staring distantly into the fireplace. "I was."

"...Oh. I see." She resolved not to question him any further on the subject.

He'd shared with her the story of the sabre cat attack that resulted in the scar on his right cheek, and the significance of the indigo tribal paint over his left eye. If he'd divulged that much personal information without brushing on the subject of a wife, then it was likely for a sound reason. He tore his gaze from the fireplace and looked at her then, and the softness in his eyes suggested gratitude at her not pressing him on the subject. A silent moment of understanding passed between them, and he rose from his seat, stooping to a nearby end table and pulling out a small object. He returned to her side and knelt down, opening the object to reveal that it was a rouge palette.

"Here, open your mouth a little," he instructed, dabbing the rouge on his fingertip.

She obeyed, never tearing her eyes from him as he carefully applied it to her lips. It was an oddly intimate moment, though considerably chaste, and she felt awkward for a brief moment as she pondered the propriety of the situation. He reached for the unused plate that had been set in front of him, holding it up so she could see her reflection. It was a modest colour, though she appreciated the flattering effect it had on her.

"You're rather talented at that," she commended, noticing how neatly and evenly he had applied it. "Men typically aren't."

He smiled, setting the plate back. "You'll excuse me, then," he said, pushing himself back up and returning the rouge to its drawer.

She looked after him as he took his leave, searching frantically for something to say. "Can't you stay a little longer?"

"I'd love to, but I must have a word with Ulfric. I'll send him in shortly. Finish eating. If I don't see you again tonight, I'll certainly be back tomorrow."

She stared at the closed door after him for a moment, then turned back to the table still loaded with ample food. She picked at the steamed crab legs and tasted the apple cabbage stew, and was halfway through an apple dumpling when she'd had her fill and abandoned it on the plate before her. The sun had fully set and the still-flickering fire and sconces set a warm orange glow about the room. She stood up and walked around, coming to stop in front of the windows and squinting through the holes of the latticework to the city below. The moons cast a blue-white glow on the snow-covered ground, and guards sporadically ambled by with flickering torches. People of various races stopped to talk in the streets, and a drunken man slurred a sea ballad somewhere in the near distance. From what little she could see of the city, the architecture seemed majestic yet modest at the same time, and for a fleeting moment, she had a burning desire to run down out the palace doors and explore the city until she dropped from exhaustion. She wanted to talk to the people and ask them all manner of questions, to go to the tavern and drink until she couldn't stand.

Eventually she tore away from the window and wandered about the room, idly rummaging through the drawers and wardrobes. Curious, women's finery and various beauty products were tucked away there, and a comb that most certainly did not belong to the dreadlocked Orc. A woman had taken residence here at some point. She uncorked a small vial of perfume and sniffed at it, smiling at the coquettish scent produced. She dabbed it onto her skin and immediately realised the rudeness of using the things that possibly belonged to the former wife of the man who had just saved her life. She quickly jammed the stopper back in the vial and returned it to its home. Instead, she settled for the innocuous task of sitting down with the book she'd found laying on the end table next to the bed, and waited.

* * *

"She looks like an Altmer, but I guarantee she isn't," Skepna said between modest bites of salmon steak.

He spoke with Ulfric alone as they dined in the main hall, plying him with Nord mead and hoping he would find his proposition amenable.

"For the prospect of avoiding awkwardness, what race is she, then? Plenty of uncomfortable situations arise as the result of ambiguous ethnicity, and I'd prefer to not offend her," he stated matter-of-factly, draining his tankard and refilling it with a nearby bottle.

"I'm not sure. Definitely not Nord, she's too small. I'm not sure she is of any Tamrielic race, actually," he said, frowning into his baked potatoes. "Probably the closest approximation I could make is Breton, though she's definitely not that, either. She's far too fair to be Imperial. She has no magical prowess and no filial bond with any of the elven races. Some kind of human is all I can tell you."

"And her stance on the war?"

"I think you'll find her most agreeable," he said with a grin. "She has nothing but hatred and contempt for her oppressors, and though she knows nothing about the politics of this place or the greater influence behind our cause, she at least shows gratitude for us and an understanding of our actions. She isn't going to give you any trouble, at least, although..."

Ulfric stopped eating, his fork poised halfway to his mouth. "Although...?" he repeated, regarding Skepna with raised brow.

Skepna set his utensils down on the table, leaning forward and lowering his voice. "You have to understand, she's been through considerable trauma. There's no telling what they did to her. I didn't press her to expound on her time in whatever prison she'd been held captive, but judging by her ample contusions and her body language, her general instinctive reflexes...she shows the telltale signs of someone who has been tortured. She might possibly even be the survivor of a failed execution. They...defiled her. And though I didn't ask, I have reason to believe she'd been a...a maiden before the assault."

This time Ulfric set his utensils down. "That might be problematic. If the only touch of a man she's ever known has been one of violence - "

"Yes. I'm aware of that. But I did explain to her the nature of her affiliation with you and she was open to it. She understands the requirements of survival and she wants nothing but what's most convenient for all parties. Just...my suggestion is to give her a little time, at least. Let her grow to trust you. She was under incredible duress for an unknown period of time, but not for so long that she's completely hopeless. She needs time to heal - emotionally _and_ physically. I'd recommend that you give her a couple of weeks before you engage in any...invasive intimacy with her." He said the last bit with a scowl, attempting to be as couth as possible.

"You're an apt healer, you didn't tend to her wounds?"

"The external ones, yes. But considering her trauma, I found it appropriate to, ah, not go anywhere near her down there. It's safer for her that way. I've given her some potions, and that should suffice. But be advised that she may not be ready for anything too intimate for a while. I'd suggest being extremely gentle with her, as she at least yields to nonthreatening coaxing rather easily. Also probably don't interrogate her on what happened to her in the prison. In time, she may come to talk about it organically if she feels necessary. She trusts me, and she knows I trust you, so it's a start. And, most importantly, I think you'll find her rather easy on the eyes."

Ulfric stared off into space, nodding to himself. "Hmm. All right. Sounds agreeable enough."

"She's susceptible to the idea of meeting you tonight, if you're so inclined. You'll find her in my old quarters."

* * *

She'd been so intrigued by the story of Pelinal Whitestrake that she hadn't taken notice of the door opening and the approaching figure of the jarl.

"The Knights of the Nine," his deep voice resonated throughout the room, causing her to jump in her seat, "always a favourite of mine."

She sat frozen in her spot, the book poised in front of her, staring up at him as she searched for something to say. He smiled serenely down at her, slowly reaching out to gingerly take the book from her hands, then set it down on the table. Taking care to make his movements slow and deliberate, he reached for the decanter of Alto wine on the table and poured some into a crystal goblet, and then another. He held one out to her, taking a modest sip from his own. She took the cup from him and drank as well, welcoming an opportunity to avoid finding something to say. The wine was pleasant, at least, as she'd suddenly realised she'd been craving a proper drink for some while now. He took the seat that Skepna had taken earlier, suspecting that standing while she sat might seem intimidating. He drank in silence for a moment, inspecting her and giving her the opportunity to speak first. When she didn't, he opted for polite conversation.

"Sterling, is it? I hope you'll find these accommodations suitable," he said cordially. "And that Sifnar's provisions were satisfying," he added, gesturing toward the leftover food.

"Yes, and yes. Everything you've offered here is more than enough. The food was wonderful. It was definitely more than what was afforded to me by the Thalmor."

"You've become well acquainted with my man Skepna, then?"

She nodded. "He's been very kind to me. He's shown more respect and sympathy toward me than even the people in my own homeland."

He narrowed his eyes briefly. "And where is that, exactly?"

She shook her head, this time powering down the remainder of the wine in her glass and reaching for the bottle before he could do it for her.

"Not here," she said vaguely as she poured another glass. Then, realising the subtle patronising tone of her answer, she added, "I...don't entirely think we're from the same plane, exactly. What concerns me is your night sky. Mine only had one moon."

A palpable silence fell over them, and he stared at her with vague concern.

"It doesn't matter," she said hastily, glancing at him briefly and then back down into her glass. "I'm here now, and it seems like that's how it's going to stay." He took her prolonged silence as indication that she was done speaking on the subject and didn't press her any further.

"Well then," he said, downing what was left in his own glass, "do you mind if I have a look at you?"

She slowly set her glass down, keeping her eyes on him, then nodded curtly.

He rose from his seat and stood over her, holding his hand out to help her from her chair. She placed her hand in his and let him effortlessly pull her up, gazing at him in apprehension while he appraised her in silence. "Mmm," he said after a moment, reaching out and lightly grazing her cheek with his thumb. "Pretty. And so soft," he said distantly, idly moving his thumb back and forth across her cheek. He toyed with a strand of her golden hair, which had dried into subtle waves around her shoulders, then lowered his hand and leaned back, openly scrutinising her body. He could see the outline of the curve of her breast through the sheer white of the garment she wore, and he felt the rising pangs of excitement in his stomach. He sighed heavily then, closing his eyes and wanting desperately to unfasten the ribbon at her throat and let the gown fall open so he could better assess the specimen before him. Still holding her hand from when he'd guided her from her seat, he turned her hand over so that her palm faced upward and grazed his nose over her wrist.

"Rose, he said, pressing his lips to her wrist. She inhaled slowly, a chill passing over her at the unexpected pleasure that came with the warm touch of his lips on her skin. "You like rose. Interesting, that was a favourite of Camilla's."

Sterling cocked her head to the side. "Camilla?"

Ulfric paused then, closing his eyes in regret and releasing her hand. "I seem to have spoken out of turn. I'd assumed Skepna might have spoken of her. ...In time, he may come to talk about it organically if he feels necessary," he said, recycling Skepna's previous advice.

"I see. Of course."

"You're probably exhausted, then," he said, changing the subject. "I would love if you would accompany me tonight. You are more than welcome to decline, of course. Rest assured, nothing would be expected of you other than your presence."

She bowed her head once, unsure of an appropriate response. She was relieved that he approved, not only because it ensured her survival, but also partially because she found his handsomeness to be rather hypnotic. He had an enticing ruggedness about him, and she found herself drawn to his voice. It was deep and assertive, and had an authoritative power about it, though it was oddly comforting. There was something rather lovely about his golden hair, broad nose, strong jawline and sculpted cheekbones; a fitting model of a Nordic king. His charm would at least make her part of the arrangement a little easier. She took another generous drink of her wine, deliberating on his offer while he patiently waited for her answer.

"I'd prefer to be alone for now," she said apprehensively, setting her glass down on the table.

"As you wish," he said, giving a polite bow. "We can become more acquainted tomorrow." He took his leave, closing the door softly behind him.

Sleep came easily, as the warmth and the spacious bed were much more than had been afforded her in captivity. It was a restless sleep, however, as it was haunted by fleeting nightmares of the horrors she'd experienced there. She'd been conditioned to instinctively jump at the slightest disturbance in the air, the most trivial thing setting off her instincts at the pose of a threat. Starting awake for possibly the third time, she found herself shivering under the fur coverlet, the room having grown dark and cold as the fire waned. She grudgingly left what little bit of warmth the bed offered and approached the fireplace, where the ashen remains of the firewood glowed with its last embers. She searched the hearth for matches with no such luck. She set about the drawers in search of some, though she didn't remember seeing any upon her initial inspection of the room. No matches, no flint, nothing. There was a surplus of firewood, of course. It then occurred to her - these people had the ability to wield magic. There was likely no use for matches here, as everyone could probably cast a simple fire spell. She cursed the unfairness of it.

Slipping out into the empty corridor was profoundly more unpleasant, the frigid shock of its stone structure nearly causing her to yelp. She flitted down the stairs and out into the main hall, grateful that it was abandoned. The welcoming glow of the kitchen emanated across the room, and she hastened inside where she was immediately met with the overwhelming heat of the cooking fires. She spent a couple of minutes thawing herself over the cooking spit, then wandered over to the pantries to assess drink options. She glazed over various nondescript bottles of wine and mead when an indigo-tinted bottle of exotic design caught her eye. _Emberbrand Wine_ was etched into the ceramic, and she uncorked it to give it a quick sniff. It seemed innocuous enough, and was notably more palatable than the wine she'd had earlier. It had a delightful warming effect as well, and she indulged on three glasses of it before she realised that the room had taken on a lethargic spinning effect and took that as her cue to return to her chambers.

She awoke in darkness, the subtle glow of an unfamiliar fire emanating from somewhere nearby. She was enveloped in a comforting warmth that was much too pleasant to make her want to fully awaken just yet. There was a nagging thought at the back of her mind, a small notion that something desperately needed her attention, that something was out of place. She fought against it in her half-consciousness, avoiding wakefulness at every cost._ I never made it out of the kitchens. _She jumped awake, noting the fireplace crackling in the hearth behind her, trying to place the unfamiliar bed in which she'd just awakened. The sheets were soft against her skin, and there was the gentle press of a warm body next to her. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light, and she could make out the unmistakable outline of Ulfric's sleeping figure next to her. She quickly assessed her garments, relieved that they hadn't been disturbed. But of course he'd been a gentleman.

"I found you passed out at the table in the kitchen," he said then, slowly turning over to face her. She jumped, not having expected him to be awake. "The fire in your room seemed to have been out a while, and it would have taken some time to get the room warm again."

"Thank you," she said mechanically, not knowing what else to say.

Her initial instinct had been to wrench herself from the bed, but the warmth was too pleasant for her to abandon it. Admittedly, the chaste press of his body next to hers provided her an unfamiliar comfort.

"I could start a new fire in your room if you want to return there," he added.

"No," she said quietly. "No, I'm perfectly fine here."

He nodded, smiling briefly in the dim light. "Very well then."

He returned to sleep, and after a moment of confused deliberation, she surreptitiously wedged herself against him and returned to sleep as well.


End file.
